Mrs. Phipps, after a faint protest, gave way, and Mr. Digson, smiling
broadly, mounted his perch again.

Mr. Clarkson's first idea was to consult Mr. Smithson; then he resolved
to wait upon events. The idea was fantastic to begin with, but, if
things did take such a satisfactory turn, he could not help reflecting
that it would not be due to any efforts on the part of Mr. Smithson, and
he would no longer be under any testamentary obligations to that
enterprising gentleman.

By the end of a week he was jubilant. A child could have told Mr.
Digson's intentions--and Mrs. Phipps was anything but a child. Mr.
Clarkson admitted cheerfully that Mr. Digson was a younger and better-
looking man than himself--a more suitable match in every way. And, so
far as he could judge, Mrs. Phipps seemed to think so. At any rate, she
had ceased to make the faintest allusion to any tie between them. He
left her one day painting a door, while the attentive Digson guided the
brush, and walked homewards smiling.

"Morning!" said a voice behind him.

"Morning, Bignell," said Mr. Clarkson.

"When--when is it to be?" inquired his friend, walking beside him.

Mr. Clarkson frowned. "When is what to be?" he demanded, disagreeably.

Mr. Bignell lowered his voice. "You'll lose her if you ain't careful,"
he said. "Mark my words. Can't you see Digson's little game?"